He leered at Opal, and she shot him a look of complete disgust.
“Stop calling her that,” Opal spat. “Little witch and your little friend. She has a name. And Sally is far more honorable and diligent than you’ll ever be.”
“Of that, I have no doubt,” Managarm replied. “Pity she couldn’t awaken you as a Berserker, though.”
Opal shifted uncomfortably, and Baron hissed loudly at him.
“Oh, I know we can’t pick and choose who will answer the call to become our Berserkers. Not even Thor or Odin has that power.” He pointed his knife at Opal. “But you’re no fool. You could have made a great captain, alongside Rita and David.”
Managarm shifted slightly as the moisture from the ground began to soak through his blue jeans. The sheep was now nearly catatonic. Deliver me better warriors, witch. Do not disappoint me.
“Fine, I’ll be your freaking captain, or whatever,” Opal snapped. “Just let Sally go. Okay? I’ll do whatever you want.”
Managarm smiled. It was a shame this one had nearly outlived her usefulness, though he wouldn’t at all be sorry to lose the infernal cat.
“The witch still has a final duty to fulfill.” He watched Opal shiver, and it warmed him.
“So after you catch the wolf, then what?” Opal nodded toward the sheep and edged away from him. “You still haven’t said why I need to be here. I really don’t want to watch a live animal getting eaten.”
“Oh, but the sheep is only the appetizer.” Managarm gestured toward the dozing animal with his knife. “You, and that portly cat there, you’re the main course.”
Opal tried to scramble to her feet—no easy feat with a cantankerous cat clinging to her jacket—but Managarm beat her to it. He stood over her, pointing his sharp blade at her throat.
“We’ll have none of that. Even if you did manage to escape me, we’re surrounded by Berserkers in these woods. Your freedom would be short-lived.”
He sat back down and resumed his whittling. Opal shook violently, and there was no pretending that he didn’t enjoy it.
“If you sit quietly, it will go quickly and almost painlessly for you. If you try to run, well, I might just let my Berserkers have a bit of fun with you before I hand you over to Fenrir.”
Fat tears rolled down Opal’s cheeks. “Please.”
“Don’t beg. It’s distasteful.”
Baron climbed up on Opal’s shoulder and, teetering there, took a swipe at Managarm, narrowly missing the god’s eyes.
“That creature,” Managarm pointed his knife menacingly at the cat, “will die with great violence, regardless. I’d kill him now, but my Randulfr cousin demands living blood.” He slid the knife’s blade along the piece of wood in his hands, honing the tip to a sharp, lethal point. The sheep was snoring, and Managarm waved his wounded hand to further scent the air. “Any minute now.”
And then, suddenly, Opal was standing over him, brandishing the stake that had held the sheep. Without hesitation, she grabbed the whittled spear out of Managarm’s hands and shoved both points into his face. Baron stood at her feet, his hair standing on end as he paced toward Managarm and growled in fury.
“I think we’ll skip your little family reunion.” Opal’s eyes burned behind her chunky glasses.
Managarm’s face reddened with rage. He moved to get to his feet, but as soon as he’d risen to his knees, Opal pressed closer, pricking his cheek and forehead with the sharp points of the stake and spear. Managarm rested back on his heels in acquiescence.
“That’s better,” Opal said.
“You know what I’ll do to your friend for this insubordination?” Managarm spat. “I’ll rip that little witch apart.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Opal hissed. “Tell you what. Instead of heading back to your lair or waiting for this wolf of yours, why don’t we deliver you to Odin and Heimdall and see what they’d like to do with you, eh?”
Managarm looked up into the girl’s newly fierce eyes. “No,” he groaned. “No, it cannot be.”
Baron settled between Opal’s feet, still hissing and growling at Managarm.
He looked from the actively hostile tabby back up to Opal. “Einherjar,” he whispered.
“On your feet,” she barked. “And lose the weapon.”
Managarm dropped his knife and held up his hands as he slowly rose to his feet.
If Opal is Einherjar . . . ? Managarm couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought. His Berserkers were duly awakened warriors, but they were young and untested. The Einherjar were the heroes of Valhalla, select soldiers who had already tasted battle.
“But the Einherjar are dead,” Managarm muttered.
“Not anymore.” Thrusting Managarm’s own spear at his chest, Opal backed him up against a tree, then motioned to the radio in his pocket. “Call off your Berserkers. Have them stand down and retreat.”
“I won’t!” Managarm growled, then cried out when Baron slashed through his jeans and dug his claws into his calf. “You’re one warrior against a god,” Managarm tried to ignore the blood dripping down into his sock. “You’re no match for me or my army.”
Opal laughed. “All you have is a couple of kids with overactive thyroids. You have no army.” She brandished the spear in his face and held the stake like a dagger. “Get on the radio. Then we’ll take your car to go reconcile you with your kin.”
“Reconcile?” Managarm blustered. There was no way Odin would allow him to live after even planning such a coup, much less taking action. He was about to protest, to try to offer her a better deal, any bluff that would convince Opal to back down or give him the upper hand. But then he heard the distinct sound of footsteps coming from the trees.
Opal smiled. “You can always beg for mercy. Though I don’t expect that will help.”
Baron sat at her feet, tail twitching.
“I’ll call off the Berserkers.” Managarm reached for the radio, trying to buy himself some time. With any luck, his warriors had disobeyed his command to keep their distance and were now closing in. “Okay? I’ll call them right now.”
“Do it,” Opal commanded. “And tell them not to—”
Her head whipped around at the sound of a twig snapping a few yards away. She crouched low and scooped up Baron. Staring into the forest, she sniffed at the air and grimaced. With a sharp, disgusted look at Managarm, she leapt to her feet and fled into the trees.
Just as she disappeared, an enormous black wolf trod carefully into the clearing from the opposite direction.
Managarm dropped to his knees to retrieve his knife and prepared to defend himself. The wolf kept its eyes on Managarm and lowered its nose to smell the ground and investigate the drugged sheep.
Managarm studied the black and gray markings on the animal, and saw blood staining its massive paws and matting its fur. Managarm relaxed his shoulders and smiled. “Fenrir.”
The wolf growled and advanced a few cautious paces. Managarm eased his grip on the knife and held out his bloody palm for inspection.
“It’s safe.” He gestured to the snoring sheep. “A gift for you.”
Managarm sat down and tried not to erupt into exhausted tears. “You’re here.”
The wolf kept his head low and continued to sniff the air while keeping a suspicious eye on Managarm.
“Don’t you recognize me? I am your kin, your cousin, your brother. I am Managarm!”
Fenrir stopped and lifted his head. He looked Managarm in the eye, then opened his mouth in a wide grin.
Managarm clapped his hands together in glee, smearing blood across both palms. “I am so happy to see you again, my long-tormented friend!” He gestured toward Fenrir’s blood-stained paws. “You’ve been hunting. Still, I make this offering. We will enjoy fresh mutton and talk as old gods do!”
Managarm chuckled in delight as Fenrir sniffed at the sheep and then sank his sharp teeth into the animal’s neck. So what if Heimdall had a few Einherjar? Once his own Berserkers got their first taste of battle, t
here would be no stopping them. And now he had Fenrir, Odin’s one and only mortal enemy.
“By this time tomorrow, my friend, the world will quite literally be ours.”
Tariq was still shaking from the dream he’d had early that morning: The dark wolf stole his baby granddaughter from her crib and snapped her in two in its massive jaws. He awoke in a cold sweat and in tears, and no amount of consoling from his wife could soothe him. He’d left his breakfast untouched and stared out the window at the gray dawn, the image of the wolf still before his eyes.
“Fenrir.” The name had seemingly come out of nowhere, until he remembered the cold stare of the black wolf at the sanctuary he’d visited with his grandchildren the weekend before.
Tariq tried a Google search on the animal’s name. Fenrir Industries. Fenrir’s Sprite Domain. Titan Fenrir CPU coolers. And then references to Norse mythology and entries in demon dictionaries. The haunting images from his nightmare came back in a blinding flash.
Unable to escape his disquiet at home, Tariq left for his groundskeeping job at Hillsboro Stadium even though he had the day off. There wasn’t much for him to do now that the grassy field had been replaced with artificial turf, but the Portland State University football team would take on the University of Montana at 11 a.m., and Tariq liked the ritual of checking the field before every game.
He now sat in the stands to watch. The game was in the first few minutes of the first quarter, and PSU fumbled the ball on the first down. Tariq munched on a last bit of hot pretzel and was licking mustard off his fingers when he felt the phone in his pocket vibrate.
“Aye, Afra.” He held the phone firmly against one ear and tried plugging the other with his fingers so he could hear his wife. “Afra, please speak up. The game is on.”
He bent low in his seat as the people around him jumped up to cheer. “No. I think PSU just scored.”
A collective groan of disappointment echoed through the stadium, and the fans in Tariq’s section sat back down again.
“Portland State Number 4, Ronnie Sheen,” the announcer’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers. “Incomplete pass, intended for Number 81, Bud Harris. Third down.”
“Sorry, Afra, no score.” Tariq listened to his wife make a comment about athletics, and laughed with her as he watched the teams form up on the field for the next play. “I’m sorry about this morning. Yes, it was just a dream, but being here for Vikings football makes me feel better.”
Tariq stopped. Vikings? He looked at the stadium scoreboard: Portland State Vikings vs. Montana Grizzlies.
In a half-daze, Tariq lowered the phone and rose to his feet. He looked at the flaming horn logo on the sweatshirts and ball caps of the PSU fans all around him—and emblazoned on the flags and across the chests of the Portland State cheering squad.
Vikings. A buzz of excitement ran the length of Tariq’s spine. He lifted the phone to his ear, ignoring the frantic voice of his wife asking if everything was all right.
“Afra, I will call you back.” He slipped the phone into his pocket and looked down onto the field. The ball was in the PSU quarterback’s hands as he looked for an opening to pass down the field. And then the entire PSU team froze in their tracks. The quarterback and offensive linemen stood as still as statues while the Grizzlies kept scrambling around them. As a single unit, the Viking players both on and off the field looked up at the sky. Even the PSU cheering squad dropped their banners and pom-poms and stood silently on the sidelines, also staring upwards.
“What the hell are they doing?!” shouted a woman to Tariq’s left.
“Uh, folks, I’m not quite sure what’s going on here,” the announcer’s voice echoed through the stadium. “It looks like the Vikings have just stopped playing.”
One of the Montana players grabbed the football out of the quarterback’s slackening grip and tore across the turf toward the end zone. Grizzly fans leapt to their feet with wild cheers, while the PSU team lowered their gaze and looked silently at one another.
“Vikings,” Tariq whispered, then jumped up excitedly on his seat. “Yes! Vikings!” he shouted, his voice barely carrying outside his own section as he pumped his fist in the air. “VIKINGS!”
“Sit down, fella!” A man shouted from a few rows back. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“Vikings!” Tariq climbed down and danced toward the stadium steps. He looked down at the field again and smiled. The entire Portland State complement—players, cheering squad, even the mascot and pep band—turned to walk off the field and out of the stadium.
“Vikings!” Tariq shouted again and hurried down the steps.
22
Thor glanced up and down the street. There was no sign of Saga’s friend, Bonnie, nor an approaching gang of Berserkers. He worried this meeting would be nothing more than a waste of precious time.
“Let’s just get on with this,” he grumbled at Freyr as they reached the front door of the Raven Dojo.
Freyr had shut the studio doors just after the Berserker attack the day before, and a large sign—“CLOSED DUE TO FAMILY EMERGENCY”—was displayed prominently in the window.
“It’s not actually locked,” Freyr said over his shoulder to Freya and Saga as he pushed the door open. “The Berserker took my keys. I just hope the place hasn’t been vandalized.”
“The vandals would have to get through my protective wards first.” Freya winked at Thor. “I might not have my old powers, but Managarm’s Rune Witch isn’t the only one with a few magickal tricks up her sleeve.”
As soon as they were inside the door, Freyr and Freya slipped off their shoes and hung their jackets on the coat hooks along the wall of the narrow hallway, then Freya disappeared into the studio’s small kitchen. Thor shuffled past the others and was about to step into the large practice room when he felt a biting grip on his elbow.
“Shoes!” Saga hissed and pulled him back.
Thor spun around impatiently and was about to unload on his little sister about how—with their own lives and the very existence of the world hanging in the balance—this was no time to stand on niceties like removing one’s shoes before entering a martial arts studio.
But before he could utter a syllable, Saga pointed at his heavy work boots. “You want to go tramping over any evidence that might remain of the Berserker’s attack?”
Conceding her point, Thor stooped to untie the thick laces and huffed as he slid out of his boots. Saga stood over him.
“I can do this myself, you know.”
Saga checked the display on her phone. “It’s just after noon.”
“Your friend’s late.” Thor kicked his shoes against the wall and stepped into the studio’s main room.
“No, she’s not.” Saga nodded toward the door. A dark-haired woman’s face was framed in the glass as she held her hands over her eyes and squinted to see inside. Saga waved her in.
Thor joined Freyr on the practice mats. Freyr gestured toward the center of the floor. “This is where it happened.”
Thor eyed the spot. It was no ordinary battlefield where disturbed earth, pools of blood, or chunks of hair might be left behind to tell the story. He took a deep breath, hoping for a lingering scent of the struggle, but all he got was a nose-full of whatever Freya was brewing in the kitchen. Thor glanced out the big window at the city sidewalk. Cars streamed steadily by, but there were few pedestrians.
Saga rounded the corner into the practice room, followed by a tall, olive-skinned woman. “This is Bonnie. She’s come to help us.”
Thor looked the young woman up and down and grunted, unimpressed. He went back to examining the floor. There was no telling how many pairs of feet had moved across these mats, learning throws and defensive maneuvers or practicing staged combat sequences. He knelt down and placed a hand on the floor, but there was nothing to find.
“No luck?” Freyr asked.
Thor stood up and shook his head. “Just like Odin’s high school. Besides us as witnesses, there’s no evidence of t
he awakening. But we’ve never had to track a Berserker before.” He paused to study Freyr’s slight build, from the delicate facial features and slender shoulders down to his narrow feet.
Freyr shifted uncomfortably under Thor’s scrutiny. “What?”
“What was it like, fighting a Berserker?” Thor tried to keep even a hint of envy out of his voice.
“Honestly, I couldn’t tell you. It happened pretty fast. One second the kid was fine, and the next . . .” Freyr lifted his hands in a futile gesture. “I was just trying to protect the other students.”
In all his years commanding the Berserkers—and occasionally disciplining and even executing when necessary—Thor had never fought one of them. Grumbling an ancient curse, he stared at the floor and tried to imagine the combat. Of all the gods, why should the lord of rain and sunshine get to do battle with one of legend’s fiercest warriors?
“Did he use recognizable maneuvers?” Thor pantomimed several blows and wrestling holds. “Did he fight like one of the old warriors, or was it the martial arts you’ve been teaching? Or maybe like a street fight?”
“I don’t know!” Freyr ran his hand over the raw scratches on his face. “I tried some Tae Kwon Do, Krav Maga, and even some Tai Chi to stop him, and still that kid knocked me to the ground and made off with my phone.”
“And your keys.” Thor choked back a chuckle. “But no weapons, right? You were fighting with your bare hands?”
Freyr rolled his eyes and turned his back on Thor.
“So there’s nothing to be learned here about the Berserkers,” Thor grumbled, then turned to Bonnie. “What about you? You’re Einherjar?”
“Oh, my god.” Bonnie’s mouth dropped open as she looked up at Thor. “Thor? That’s Thor!” Bonnie swayed slightly on her feet, and Saga grabbed her by the shoulders to steady her.
Thor beamed. He looked around to make sure the others had seen her swoon. He saw Freyr roll his eyes again and had an idea what the nature god was thinking—that now Thor would be even more impossible to live with.
Freya appeared from the kitchen and offered a warm mug to Bonnie. “Drink this. It will soothe you, and will ease our work together.”
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